WD-40’d the shit out of those hinges and the door is absolutely silent. I open and shut it, mouth ajar in wonder. I’m like the eyepatch woman with the cotton balls and motor oil inventing the silent drape runners. The same manic level of satisfaction. Doc, I’m asking you to tell me what it means, this immense feeling of warm dominance when I am able to silence something. I think at first it was just the pursuit of a smooth tranquility but it’s become something more, a sort of fascist will to quash, to take away its voice so it can offer up no resistance, no personality. But what is it? That’s what you’re writing down. I’ve written that down, too, my fingers slowly pressing the keys so they make no sound, hardly making an impression against the paper. But today I’ll give you an answer: anything that can be crippled by silence. Anything that can’t come up with an alternate method of expressing itself. Something motionless, motionless and silent but still inescapable, fascinating — that’s what I want.